


Der Totentanz der Mächtigen

by lunicole



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 19th Century, Hate Sex, Historical, Multi, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunicole/pseuds/lunicole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They waltz and hate each other, with soft words that cut like shards of glass and smiles that burn their lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nocturne

Elizabeth has a charming voice, she really does, and Hungary can't help but to wonder how German, ugly, dreadful, terrible German, can sound so lovely on her lips. She smiles a lot, eats little, laughs with Hungary when they get to spend time together here in Vienna, which is whenever the empress of Austria isn't out of the country, to visit the far ends of the world. It's not a lot of time, because if there's anything that binds the two friends together, it's their common hate of Vienna's high society. The thing is that Elizabeth can leave this place, while Hungary is stranded.

"Did you enjoy your latest trip ?" she asks to Elizabeth, German still feeling not quite right on her tongue. "Where did you go this time ?"

It makes the empress eyes shine to talk about the worlds she discovers whenever she leaves the stuffy rooms of her husband's country to explore the world. She talks about Greece and the Antiquity, the legends she has read in their original version, the colour of the sun over the Mediterranean Sea. Her words are like music, a Liszt composition, aware of her surroundings and yet detached from the reality of the world she lives in. Hungary shakes the idea off her head quickly; it sounds too much like the kind of things Austria would say.

Elizabeth toys nervously with the piece of cake in her plate as she speaks, never gets herself to place it in her mouth, making a mess of jam and bread in her place. It was her idea to have coffee and cake, but they both know that Elizabeth doesn't like eating. Sometimes Hungary catches her gaze upon her, and she doesn't know if it's admiration or jealousy that she sees glinting in her dark eyes as Elizabeth stares. Hungary will never age, and maybe the empress hates her just a little bit for that. Hungary tries not to think too much of it, of how humans will never truly understand her kind and how Elizabeth seems to age more noticeably with every year that passes. Grief makes her look even thinner than she actually is. The empress' eyes haven't found back that quiet joy they used to have, so many years ago.

Hungary turns her head to the window, still half-listening to Elizabeth travel stories. It's snowing over Vienna, and she hates the Hofburg a lot more than she hates Schönbrunn, maybe because there are parks there, and she can lose herself in their intricate green mazes during the summer months. It's better than staying here and see that ironic smile on Austria's face whenever he plays Chopin for her. He knows how it makes her feel, and it makes her want to break his girly, dainty little neck.

"You know, I've been practicing a bit of Hungarian since my last visit there," she says, her Bavarian accent singing and pretty on her tongue."I don't want to lose it, with all the Greek I've been learning. Tud nekem segíteni ?"

The empress' pronunciation is a bit terrible but Hungary smiles anyway. She likes Elizabeth, unlike Austria, because Elizabeth is like her, a woman captive of a marriage motivated by politics, even though Sisi does love her husband somewhere, unlike Hungary, who's often dreamed of strangling Austria in his sleep. She has never gotten around the logistics of actually doing it, though.

She's about to answer her in Hungarian but there's a knock on the door and, still not free from all those years she spent as a vulgar maid in Austria's house, she goes to answer it.

It's the emperor himself, and Hungary can't help but to grit her teeth to keep herself from running away. She likes Elizabeth, with her wide-eyed idealism and her long hair, but she hated the emperor, the way he moves, his militaristic stance and the way he wages war, not without skill but with absolutely no compassion. She has to remind herself that this is a man of Maria-Theresa's family every time she sees him to keep herself from tearing off the skin from his arrogant face.

"Greetings, your Majesty," she says, bowing a little even though it physically pains her to do so in front of him.

Franz-Joseph returns the salutation coldly, and Hungary knows instantly that she has to leave now, from the way he gives her a look and turns to his wife quickly afterwards, love and admiration shining in his eyes whilst Elizabeth can only smile awkwardly. There is something in her eyes that begs Hungary to stay, because she doesn't know what to do with the love her husband will never stop showering her with. Hungary can only give her an understanding yet tired look. She likes Elizabeth, but she doesn't want to have anything to do with this, the Hapsburgs and their complicated stories.

The door closes and Hungary heads towards her own quarters. It's almost five and she knows that her own husband usually eats at this time of the day. She doesn't want to see him just now, not with a day that started so well.

Austria, for some reason, visits her rooms that evening. It's getting dark and she's still at her mirror, braiding her long hair before bed, when she hears him. His steps are regular, measured, like a metronome, and she instantly knows that it's him behind the door even before he knocks. His dainty knuckles make three little dry sounds on the dark mahogany wood. She doesn't say anything to that. She doesn't want to see him, but she's not exactly in a position to refuse anything, has never been since she's been moved into this house, left as a bait for the relative independence of her people.

Austria pushes the door open, his ridiculously girly hands so white against the dark wood; it's almost as if they glowed in the twilight. He's hasn't been home very often, lately, running around Vienna's concert halls to forget his own self with the sound of classical music. He steps into the room, dressed in the most elegant black suit, and Hungary just looks at him through the mirror in front of her, nightdress floating on her body as she stops brushing her hair.

He has always been this very strange kind of beautiful, because even though she hates him, she can't deny that he's good looking. He moves the way a prince would do, hands like water when he speaks. There's this soft quality to his features that will always stay, even when he breaks revolutions and hopes, turning those delicate words of him into weapons.

Hungary closes her eyes.

"What are you doing here ?"

There are a few more steps, slow ones, and she feels his hands on her shoulders. She tries not to think about Russia and the failed revolution, but it doesn't work, not with Austria's fingers brushing her collarbone through the fabric. The gesture is too painfully familiar.

"I wanted to talk with you," he says, and one of his palms slips down, tracing with his thumb the shapes of the scars that mar her back through the fabric. "Can I ?"

She doesn't move, doesn't look, and it's just as much of an answer than all the words the German language can offer. It's a surprise when she feel a light peck on the base of her neck, against the dark, ugly marks of a cut that never properly healed. Her eyes jerk open, and she would have screamed out of sheer rage and terror if she hadn't been smart enough to know that dealing with Austria never really worked that way. His lips don't linger there, and it doesn't hurt, but it's a message. He won't let her forget.

"Is it about Elizabeth ?" she asks, hoping that it's not. She doesn't like how Austria deals with the royalty they share, his sickening devotion for the emperor and gossiping for the rest, but she doesn't have much of a say in this.

Austria let out a dry laugh. He lets go of her shoulders, walking into a half-circle to face her properly. Hungary would sigh out of relief at the fact that he's not touching her anymore, but she knows better than to play right into Austria's mind games. She keeps the calm facade up, looks straight at him. His amused smile hasn't turned into a snarl yet.

"The empress' wanderings have stopped interesting me years ago." Austria speaks softly, and there is this subtle tone of disdain hanging on his tongue. He doesn't like Elizabeth, has never done. "I'm interested in your well-being. What have you been up to lately ?"

It's a lie, of course it's a lie, because she knows Austria too well to ever believe he could care about anyone but that precious boy with the sickly body that died in what seems like a lifetime ago. She smiles amiably, copying that monster of a husband modern politics gave her, and it scares her, for a brief moment, how she's slowly turning into him after all these years.

"You know that I never do anything here." Vienna is a prison for her, but she knows it's better for her to be there than for Austria to stay in Budapest. She wouldn't be able to deal with him there, bitching about the uncourtly manners of the Hungarians. "Why are you here, Austria ?"

He makes a tutting sound with his tongue, looks away. Hungary's grin grows wider, and she has to make an effort to hide it. She knows what that gesture means because she knows Austria and Austria's ways. This look always means something about Prussia, because it's always Prussia that makes him angry like this, the never-ending fighting and the long, sleepless evenings when he plays on and on again grating, insipid little concertos until his fingers ache. It also meant trouble, for her, of course, but it means that he aches himself too, and Hungary will take care of her marital duties if she can use it in any way to hurt him.

"It seems that we have news from the West," she enounces, and she knows she's right when Austria's face takes that subtle expression of anger. She relishes in the sight, even though she knows that he's better than her at those wars of words and gestures that they've been waging since their wedding.

"Strip," he says with that voice, the harsher one, and she knows the drill, after all these years.

Hungary rises from her seat, and she's slightly taller than Austria but it doesn't really show as she walks in the center of the room and undresses carefully, slipping out easily of her nightdress. He makes her kneel against the cold floor, dainty hand lingering in her hair when she's done. It makes her want to bite his ring finger off.

Austria is still the princely young man on the outside, dressed in that black suit that does look good on him, his long legs and thin waist, but she can see through the cracks on the mask, the stench of blood and madness hiding behind his purple eyes. He looks at her form on the floor, and Hungary recognises that look in his eyes. It's not lust, it's never been lust, and he turns around her like a scientist around an unknown specimen. When he touches the scars on her back, even though she knows that it is what he does every time he wants to give a little pointless show of power, she has to keep herself very still from not screaming. There are things she loathes about Austria more than anything, and this is one of them, the silence as he only looks at her and possesses her without even having to touch her. It reminds her of Russia's quiet smiles as he crushed her, decades ago, beating her with merciless blows as Austria watched and smiled softly. When she had finally been able to walk again, he had played her Liszt, her beloved Liszt, sad, gloomy song, with a satisfied smile on his face. Sometimes, she wonders how she managed to sit through it and not jump at his throat to strangle him. Then she remembers that her hands hadn't completely healed from Russia's last visit back then.

It's over faster than she thought it would be. Austria leaves, still dressed, because she disgusts him too much for him to ever have her sexually. The tails of his coat float behind him as he walks away. She's alone, naked and untouched in her own room, and she doesn't find it in herself to rise herself back up and get dressed. She stays there, and thinks of the years that have flown by since she came here, the polite smile on Austria's face when they spoke to each other back in the days. Whatever affection they might have had back in those days is lost now, with Austria's empty promises and Russia's hands on her throat as he laughs softly.

This game of politics has made men and nations go mad, she can't say otherwise, but it won't keep her from hoping for better days and Poland's smile as he holds her hand. She's not Austria and, unlike him, she hasn't stopped hoping. But tonight is not the time to let herself dream like this, and there are letters from Bohemia that she'll probably forget read in their entirety just now. She's not like him; she'll never, ever be like him, no matter what they might say.

That night, she sleeps a dreamless sleep


	2. Waltz

"You've lost weight, Austria. Have you changed your diet of cake and coffee ?"

Austria doesn't even have to look at Prussia's face to understand what he means. He can hear the grin in his voice well enough. He sips his coffee slowly, his croissant abandoned in his plate on the coffee table. There really isn't anything decent to answer to this. Prussia knows perfectly well why Austria looks a little bit under the weather.

Prussia eats voraciously, not really tasting whatever's in front of him. It's typical but Austria isn't in a position anymore to make him at least try to behave, and so he only closes his eyes out of tiredness whenever Prussia forgets what a fork is and licks the jam on his fingers. Prussia knows why Austria is receiving him, and yet he avoids the subject like it's some kind of game, mimicking this insufferable old man Austria loathes even more than Prussia's dearest Frederick. It doesn't please Austria, even if he's so used to the ways of politics that it's nearly a second nature to him. Prussia is showing off in a new, discrete way this time, how much he's grown since the old days, where he was nearly a pawn at the service of the Empire. Times change and Austria sighs. Napoleon has been dead for what seems like an eternity and the Prussians mended their ways somewhere in between Austerlitz and Sadowa. Austria hadn't.

"And you've gotten fat," he answers matter-of-factly. "Emperorship suits you ill."

It's a wrong answer, it really is, and it makes Prussia's grin grow more feral. He catches Austria's hand, pinning it against the dark wood of the coffee table. No one in the café seems to bother giving them more than a passing glance. They're both dressed the most modern fashion, leaving the uniforms and decorum for tonight's more official meeting. Surprisingly, it's Austria's idea not to talk in the palace, or maybe it's not that surprising, somehow. He doesn't need his wife of circumstances to eavesdrop on his dealings with Prussia.

"Didn't suit you any better." Prussia doesn't make a move to back down, takes a new bite from his pastry, jam marring the corner of his mouth. Austria can't help but to be reminded of blood. He keeps his mouth shut, lets Prussia do the talk. It's odd, how their situation turned around so fast in the last century.

"You should have seen Bavaria in Versailles. I mean, I hate him, but damn if I didn't feel a little bit bad about the whole deal when I saw the face he made when he saw the kid. Nah, not really, I don't fucking care about what he thinks."

He snorted uglily, releasing Austria's hand to take a sip from his coffee. He looks out, and Vienna is warm again. Spring came back to the music city after winter, and Austria still has to deal with nationalities and identities whilst Prussia plays politics and orders his brothers around like a mass of puppets. He should talk with Hungary about Bohemia, he really should, but melancholy is a powerful thing and he doesn't like dealing with his wife anyway. Ever since the end of the war and the wedding, he can't help but to sometimes avert his gaze from her and turn toward the West. She hates him, just like that boy, so many years ago, hated him with a passion that made his whole body shake. Prussia catches that glint of nostalgia in his eyes, pushes the knife deeper into the wound.

"I really want you to meet him." Prussia talks of him like he's news, like Austria doesn't know what it means to have him back. "He's really different. Older. Stronger."

The words cut like they should, and Austria stops breathing for a moment. Prussia won, still wins, and Austria wishes, he wishes that one day it will come back and break him the same way Austria is broken right now, feeling power slip between his fingers in a drawn-out agony. And now this.

"I can't wait for our meeting, then," he answers blandly, looking at the cup between his palms. He's not hungry for pastries anymore. "Will I be welcome in Berlin any time in the near future ?"

Prussia laughs and it chills Austria's spine, suddenly. His eyes have taken that sharper, darker colour that reminds Austria of blood.

"Oh you won't need any of this. You always bitch about how barbaric the northerners are every time you go there. No... He'll be joining us soon enough."

Prussia's expression loses that quiet smugness to observe quietly the emotions that come and go under Austria's careful mask. Austria doesn't have the strength to confront his gaze once more, look out the window. He thinks of calming things like the paintings in Vienna's Künstlerhaus and the waltzes of Johann Strauss. It doesn't really work, and he remembers bright blue eyes and the promises of power Spain whispered in his ears centuries ago, before this enlightenment and democracy that had made France go mad. The past is the past, and all he does lately is following the orders of Franz-Joseph and hoping for the best. It's a good deal, better deal than those petty republics that keep popping up over the face of Europe. It doesn't make his chest ache less at the souvenir of his past glory and how he knows in his gut that this, the Balkans and the wedding with Hungary, is just the beginning of the end. It doesn't make him forget the undying devotion he had felt for the empire that was now long gone.

"You've gone all pensive and dreamy once again." Prussia's teeth are sharp, and his smile makes Austria want to break his face. Sadly, it doesn't really work this way anymore. There's a hand over his own once again, softer now, tracing lines over his knuckles. Prussia's little show isn't over, and Austria tries to deduce in his gaze if he wants him to fight it tonight or to simply let go and have him his way. Austria will probably have to pretend as if he's putting a bit of a fight. This is what Prussia likes, and Austria gives him what he likes because he knows that this is how he'll get what he wants.

Bismarck might be a genius, but he will never know Europe the way Austria knows it, the smallest intricacies of nations that have been along for too long for him not to have figured out their strengths and weaknesses. He averts his eyes with a practiced movement, even though it hurts, even though he wishes that it would be someone else than Prussia in front of him. He doesn't answer because he doesn't have anything to say to Prussia right now, except to indicate him to take what he wants and stop this game they both play out of sheer habit.

They pay and Austria's croissant is still abandoned in his plate, because there's a knot in his stomach that won't go. Prussia has money, more than he has ever had in his life, money he stole from France by the arms. He smiles graciously to the waiter, speaking with that same harsh northern accent that makes Austria's ears wince. The leave, catch a coach that make them pass through the baroque, bustling center of Vienna. It sounds and smells like it should do, when the spring comes, the metropolis with its foreign tongues and cultures. Prussia is right when he says that Austria hates Berlin, cold, small little town he remembers it to be, with the harsh, brutish ways of the Prussians.

The panorama of his own heart is nearly, nearly enough to make him forget how sharp are Prussia's fingers in the back of his neck, hand just staying there, motionless. Politics. Everything Prussia does is always so obvious. The coach driver cannot see them from his seat and it is a good thing. Prussia has caught the degenerated ways of the French during this little war of his but it doesn't mean that Austria will start doing those things in public like they're normal. They're not, and maybe he'll have to confess afterwards, but the Catholic Church is a forgiving one. He understands the requirements of diplomacy better than anyone.

"Should I have you on your knees or on your back first ?" he whispers in his ears and Austria would roll his eyes and tell him that it's exactly the kind of things France would say but he doesn't. He's not here to make him angry.

"I don't care."

It shouldn't infuriate Austria as much as it does to say things he doesn't mean. Prussia doesn't catch it in his mouth, what's happening in his head, and he grins even more, takes a whiff of Austria's hair like he owns it and sits back, smug. Austria doesn't look away from the streets that surround the small coach, the smell of fresh pastries mixing itself with the stench of the industrial city, with its bodies too close with each other and it dark machines and factories.

"You know, Austria, even now, I don't get this Great Germany of yours. It's not just because of, you know, the old man Prime Minister. Your idea of empire aren't fit for the modern world. There's a reason why your dear boy died the way he did."

Austria turns around, misses the sight of Vienna's Prater they pass by quickly, only to give Prussia a look that might just let out a glimpse of the anger and jealousy he felt since the letter in January. He's always been good at hiding the monsters that lurk in the shadows of every single one of them, but the sting of anger and humiliation is still there, even though he knows that he can't fight the Prussians anymore. The war has been lost and he had to give away his hand to Hungary out of necessity.

Prussia catches the conflicting feelings in Austria's gaze, and his teeth are white and sharp when he says the words he knows will push him over the edge.

"But your dear, not-quite-Holy and definitely not Roman Empire came back." His voice takes a singing tone now, like those dreadful Wagner operas Bavaria loves so much. "And he's mine now."

It's clear, how hurt Austria's eyes are now, and Prussia relishes in this slight pain that shows behind half-closed lids. He touches his face lightly, as a lover would. Austria is suddenly reminded of Spain's sunny laughs and fleeting caresses, soft foreign words on his tongue. He hadn't loved Spain, not really, but there was this odd kind of security whenever they laid together in the morning and Spain talked in hesitant Latin about how the world was theirs for the taking.

He flinches when Prussia's hand starts toying with his glasses, pushes him slightly away. Prussia might be a barbaric northerner but he's not Russia, and they do share the same spoken and unspoken language. Prussia shakes his head, and yet complies. It's not like he's not going to get what he wants down the road.

It's strange to step out of the horse-drawn cab in front of the palace's door. Prussia steps out last, gives the castle of the Hapsburg an amused stare. It's far from the Prussian pragmatism of Potsdam, but he would be an idiot to say that it isn't gorgeous, even France, with his still head clouded by the demons of the revolution, had admitted it. The Hofburg is beautiful, has always been, and Prussia's accent sounds stupid as it reverberates in its halls and corridors, well, stupider than usual.

That night they eat one of those official, elaborate meals in a silvery service. Prussia still doesn't have any manners and Hungary still has that glint of hate in her hazel eyes every time she looks at her husband, dressed in that gorgeous dress Austria chose for her. The other members of the delegation are nice enough, bland, boring humans obeying the principles of Bismarck's Realpolitik. Austria talks when the emperor wants him to, Franz-Joseph's slow, deep tone asking him to exchange with their guests his thoughts on music.

"And your thoughts on Liszt, Maestro ?"

The diplomat is from Saxony, it shows in his accent. Hungary somehow manages not to shift uncomfortably on her seat. She hates, hates, hates it when he plays Liszt, although it might be a bit his fault and the odd kind of pleasure he had taken in making her hear the sounds of her own failed revolution. He hasn't been nice to her but she hasn't been a good wife either, looking up north and whishing she had been a Poland's side instead of his, never understanding that there was something greater out there than the happiness of their people alone. He answers politely, with words that don't really matter, and it doesn't take long for Hungary to say something she thinks is witty but sounds desperately plain. Austria smiles amiably as she does. They're good at maintaining this facade of polite, quiet love, but Prussia knows better, from the glint of his eyes whenever he looks at them both, eating loudly and stuffing his already full mouth.

Times change, and Austria can't do anything about it. That night, he dances with Hungary in the ballroom, and she smiles a knowing smile as they both fake to love each other. She didn't understand at first, but now she does and nothing could keep her from reading his thoughts now. She knows about his undying devotion to an idea that was long dead, and how dearly he wanted this boy that Prussia revived with storms and wars. She knows that the simple fact that she's dancing with him now is a sign that his power is withering and dying.

"So it's true," she whispers in his ear and it shouldn't sting as much as it does. "Prussia managed to do what you could never do."

His grip on her hand as he leads grows tighter but her smile doesn't even waver. He can't break her anymore, and he knows how much she hates him for all the things he has done to her. Resigned, he sighs.

"Yes."


	3. Sonata

Germany is young, a lot younger that Hungary thought he would feel like. He's like a boy who grew up too fast, large shoulders and strong limbs that move awkwardly, unaware of their own strength. He doesn't inspire her as much disgust as Austria or Prussia, mainly because he doesn't seem to fully grasp everything that's happening around him. It's endearing, really. He has the same blond hair as Saxony, the slow pronunciation of Bavaria, the large built of Westphalia and the same way of holding himself proudly as Prussia. He's as ridiculously German as Austria isn't, riding a horse with the assurance of a nation made to wage wars, watching his host play Wagner with childish wonder. Austria hates Wagner, but Prussia likes torturing him in that new, subtle way that the modern times have taught him. He plays mechanically and badly, but Hungary is the only one who catches it, the way his hands aren't really putting the right amount of emotion into the piece, skipping beats by a small instant.

And yet there's something left, something that's not quite new in the way Germany doesn't talk about himself directly, listening to Prussia's words as if they were the words of God. Austria's glance avoids him as if he were some kind of eyesore, which he obviously isn't, and Hungary wonders if it's out of jealousy or out of hurt. She hopes that it's both.

They've retreated to Schönbrunn before Germany's arrival, on her own impulsion. The Hofburg doesn't have a park large enough for her to avoid Austria and Prussia, and spring has come back to Vienna, giving her an excuse to escape its small streets and court gossip for a bit. Elizabeth is gone again and she feels a bit alone, but it doesn't really matter. She walks in the park of the palace, plays her role, pretends to love Austria in front of their guests, even though it's only Germany who actually believes in the lie. Prussia doesn't seem to make a move to change his mind, and maybe it's better this way for now. It doesn't change the fact that Hungary wants to scrub her skin off whenever Austria kisses her hand with a charming bow.

"Vienna is beautiful," Germany says simply as they stroll through the gardens. It's a surprisingly warm day, with the sun shining bright in the sky. Austria and Prussia are busy with politics, and neither Hungary or Germany have any real power in that kind of decision-making.

"Yes, very," she lies, easily. He's not bad intentioned, just a bit new to how everything works here, and she can't really blame him for that. "My husband and I like to leave the city a bit during the warmer months, to come here and profit from the parks and the gardens."  
"A bit like Sanssouci..."

Germany smiles a bit, and Hungary doesn't really know what to do of this. There's an aura of complete sincerity about him, a boy in the body of a man. He doesn't seem to realise how many times she fought Prussia, how both her and Austria loathe his beloved brother for diverse yet valid reasons. He doesn't get that the reason why they're receiving them like this is not because they want to be friends, but because they're forced to. Germany knows nothing of the world but the lights of victory in Versailles, the careful words exchanged between his brothers in front of Prussia and the celebrations of an Empire that has just been born.

"I guess it's a bit like that, yes."

She nods and they keep on walking, under the moving shadows of the trees, with the sound of leaves that rustle with the wind. They don't need to speak any more than that, and Hungary observes the sky through the branches for a moment, and can't help but to think about how easy it would be to catch a boat on the Danube from here and be in Budapest to see spring in the city and hear the sound of her own language on the streets. She knows that it won't happen. Germany is still but a boy and already he has the world in front of him, an empire to himself and the whole of Europe to conquer. It doesn't fit him, somehow, because he doesn't have this subtle lust for power Prussia and Austria have.

"I... Can I ask you a question ?"

Germany's low voice drags her out of her reflections. He seems somehow uneasy, as if it's an important question and he believes that she'll answer honestly. He probably does, given his age and obvious naivety.

"Of course."  
"Is it normal..." He takes a deep breath. "Prussia and Austria's dealings ?"

Had Hungary not been used to hide her emotions carefully, she would have laughed at the way Germany seems uncomfortable with Austria's ways. He's good at what he does, Hungary can't deny him that, the subtle movements of the hand that make Prussia go insane with lust. If Hungary didn't hate him the way she did, for the scars on her back and the way he twisted words to make her submit to him, maybe she would have felt the same way as Prussia does. Austria represents everything Prussia will never truly have, and maybe that's the only reason why he can't help but to push him against the mattress and have his way as Austria silently complies.

Austria always silently complies, with Prussia, with Spain, long ago, with France and with Russia, buying his way out of wars with delicate hands and a skilled mouth. He's always been so dreadful at these war games anyway.

"It's normal for my husband," she answers simply, and it's not exactly false.

Germany stops walking and Hungary only realise a few seconds later, turning around to look at him strangely. He seems shocked to learn that Austria wages his war badly but loses beautifully. He takes a few moments to think, unmoving. When he speaks once again, there's this sort of misguided compassion in his voice. He doesn't understand that Hungary has never cared much for Austria's well-being and dignity since the start of the last century.

"I, em, I'm sorry."

He apologise as if it's his fault Prussia is the way he is, and Hungary walks up to him, places her hand on his large shoulders, smile with a gesture she stole from Austria, chasing away some invisible dust from the shoulder of Germany's obviously new coat. He flinchs at the gesture first, as if it was the first time a woman ever touched him. Maybe it is. Germany has been raised by weapons and men.

It's a bit sad because Germany can't really see the blind mix of adoration and hate that mixes itself in Austria's eyes every time he looks at him. Hungary does, and relishes in it, the pain that shows in small little ways under Austria's fair skin. He's too much like the Empire, before Europe took a shift toward this new era of science and reason for Austria not to feel that stir inside him, and yet he's too much like Prussia for Austria to ever forget that the Empire, his empire, is dead. Maybe Hungary should help him understand what's happening right now. She feels like she has to.

"Don't be sorry. That's the way it has always been."

They don't say more, walk in silence, Hungary looking at the sun that announces a nice summer over Vienna. Germany seems to be engrossed in profound reflections, as if Hungary's words were the most undecipherable hieroglyphs. They head back to Schönbrunn after a while, and Germany's steps grow more military as they approach the castle, knowing that he'll be facing his brother once again. The same nauseating obedience to Prussia flows from his pores once again. He can't see how sick it makes Hungary, but once again, it's most probably a good thing for his to be a tiny little bit ignorant of whatever his happening backstage.

They eat together as hosts and guests should, With the four of them over the table, Austria seems remarkably easy between Germany and Prussia, even though Hungary knows from the way he moves his neck that Prussia left traces of his passage over his body. He still avoids to look at Germany, still makes small, fancy talk in that singing accent of him that could have been endearing if Hungary hadn't been so sick of hearing it. German still feel strange on her lips when she adds little bits to the conversation. Prussia isn't mannered, has never been, but it's mainly because it pisses Austria so much that he does that.

"How is Bavaria ?" Austria dares to ask, and Prussia gives him an empty look, It's Germany that answers the question swiftly, with that blind, trusting ignorance that characterise him.  
"He's been a bit sick, but he'll be better soon enough. Munich is always pretty at this time of the year."

Austria makes a spiritual comment about Bavaria's ever-changing mood and affections, and Prussia snorts very loudly. He doesn't say anything vulgar, though, and that alone surprises Hungary very much.

"Maybe we'll go visit him on the way back, won't we Germany ?"

Germany nods a powerful, convinced nod, and it's in that kind of moments that it shows the most, how ridiculously young he is. It always takes a century to truly understand the ways of humans and their games of war and peace.

They don't talk about how Prussia now wants to take over the world and how Austria would give everything to have Germany dead and the Empire back. There's nothing positive that could ever come out of something like this, and Prussia seems to want to keep Germany in that blissful ignorance he's in. Austria and Hungary aren't in the mood or a position to object. Germany talks a bit about Paris and the rest under Prussia's request, and it makes Austria's eyes shine with a thin shade of anger.

Sometimes, Prussia's hand lingers a bit too long under the table and Hungary tries not to show her amusement on her face. Austria's glances do the work to keep her from rising from her seat and head to her rooms as fast as she can. It's all too amusing, and there's this revengeful warmth in his chest that spreads to her whole body as she thinks of Austria breaking under Prussia's touch. It's not much but he suffers, and it's the best she'll get.

That night, she writes to Poland, a long letter of longing, and she remembers the better days, the colour of his blond hair in the sun. There aren't enough pretty words in German to make him understand the extent of her feelings, how she wishes that Russia's hands and Austria's words hadn't broken her into submission. There aren't enough words in German but Poland has never learned Hungarian, probably never will. There's the sound of ink against paper and she realises that she should have gotten herself a room closer to Austria's, only to hear his muffled breathing as Prussia uses him as a victor does, the way Austria never got himself to use her, leaving bruises of words over her body.

Maybe she's terrible for thinking those things. Maybe things could have been different and choices right, and now she could be free, had Austria chosen the right words or Russia hadn't beaten rebellion out of her senseless. Poland doesn't need to know about the demons hiding into the corners of her soul. Only Austria ever sees those, because she can't help it, really, and he brings out the worst out of her, even more than Prussia or Turkey or any of the others. That's how they work, nowadays, and the Empress still doesn't eat and the Emperor still has this underlying hardness in his eyes whenever he speaks to Hungary.

When she wets her fingers and pinches the candle on her small wooden desk off, she can't help but to think of Germany and of the terrible things are waiting for him when he'll finally wake up and see things for what they are. France is a time bomb waiting to blow up, even Hungary, who doesn't take care of diplomacy, knows it. Prussia will break his beloved brother just as how he broke every weapon he ever used, at one point or another. Hungary can feel it in her gut that when he does, it'll somehow be Austria's fault.


End file.
